Empty manifestations with minds of their own.
But will first blush, allow for separation of church and body?
In the bronze light of smoke-filled ambivalent days,
I have never liked blue.
Considering it always looked pungent on you.
Why is it…only in the light of night,
wanted more for less?
past or present,
dreams are in texture
color in screams.
Nighttime in fallen leaf.
There have been holes.
Holes in the wall.
Holes to the sky.
Blankets for caressing.
Blankets in which, I could collect my cares.
But within the secrets of dim light…
Somewhere between the darkest hours and fitful sleep.
I am consigned to the sounds.
The sounds of my home, at night.
The purr of a well-loved cat.
The snore of a well-fed dog.
The hum of winter’s heat.
The vibration of a distant car as it moves along.
The echo of love…as it takes a seat.
I have learned, slowly, to appreciate these subtle nuances.
As though, they were…a midnight rendezvous.
Pondering on static.
Listening for surround sounds to…eke through.
With a twist and a muffled turn.
I lay my hand on my lover’s side.
The repetition of her breathing consoles me.
It is in these faint moments…
My loving home confides.
How organic to yearn for love?
Then stand in its light.
Such as, searching for the sun five minutes after midnight.
More often than not,
we stand by the radiance of a full moon.
As though love will never give will to confinement.
Or, by what is assumed.
Cordial and unlucky.
Awaiting with causality toward yesterday.
Upholding many hours past midnight.
An ill lit embankment to instill a traveler’s fright.
No one is born unto a shift by the graveyard.
Poetically speaking, the role of walking dead no more different from…
portraying a fly at the bar.
A limp for the narrow figures that wander far.
The appearance of black opiates dance like sugar cane in a diluted mind.
Visions of unassuming white vans seem to be…just waiting on a friend.
In the ominous role of third shift…the rules can bend.
Metallic taste absolves in the mouth and soul.
Fear is lessened.
A lack of care for the person…not quite whole.
No mention made of ‘being young or growing old.’
As I lay awake…brought to by the mask between dark and dawn.
Late night phone calls made up of frightful spite.
I am no longer a dismayed child…hiding in the corner of a cluttered closet.
It is only in the dead of winter do I feel a certain warmth.
In the crevices of wee hours, newly forged friendships.
Years pass, nothing could buy my love.
Nothing could forge my amends.
But those selfish hours…have long since gone away.
Last night, a black and white memory of hiding in that closet.
I did not cower from it, as I usually do.
No longer will I play puppet to a dark fool.